Title: My Name Is Catherine Willows
Author: Erin Kaye Hashet
Rating: PG
Feedback: EKHashet@hotmail.com
Spoilers: References to all the episodes that mention Eddie, and Felonious Monk.
Summary: Catherine reflects on all that has made her who she is today.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters; no infringement intended. I'm not
making any money off this, so you can't sue me.
Author's Note: I've never written CSI fanfic before, but after I saw "The Finger"
I just admired Catherine so much that I kind of rediscovered why she's my favorite character. She's just so complex, and her life has so many contradictions- like
why was a strong, smart woman like her a stripper? This story is my attempt to answer some of those questions.
My Name Is Catherine Willows
by Erin Kaye Hashet
My name is Catherine Willows.
Every morning I repeat that to myself. It helps me to remember who I am-- as
oppposed to who I was, and who I will be. Who I am today may be a completely
different person than who I am tomorrow.
But every day, one thing remains the same: my name is Catherine Willows.
I never knew my father.
Literally. I don't know his name, or how old he is, or if he's even alive. I
wonder, sometimes, if I look like him. I look nothing like my mother, but for all I
know she' s not even my mother.
Sometimes I feel like I never knew her, either. She was a drug addict who, half
the time, forgot about me. She forgot a lot of things, actually. Like who my
father was. Honestly, that's what she said when I asked her who my father was:
"I don't remember." She probably wasn't lying. My father could have been any
one of the guys she slept with while she was high.
My memory is a little better than my mother's. A lot better, in fact. I still
remember kindergarten. I remember my teacher, Mrs. Westcott. She was a
pretty woman, young, with shoulder-length honey-blond hair and piercing
blue eyes. She always wore cherry-red lipstick, but it didn't look gaudy, at
least not to a five-year-old. To this day, when I hear the word "red," that's
what I think of: Mrs. Westcott's cherry-red lipstick.
I remember the flash cards she'd hold up to the class, with the letters of
the alphabet on them. We'd have to say the letter and the sound it made.
"This is A and the sounds are ay and ah. This is B and the sound is buh," we'd
all chorus. I memorized those flash cards without even realizing it.
On the last day of kindergarten, we were each given a book, one of those
Little Golden Books. At home, I sat down with mine and sounded out every
word. It took awhile. By the end of the first page, I was exhausted. But I was
also jubilant: I'd done it. I was reading.
The next fall I started first grade. My teacher's name was Mrs. Heavey, and
she was much older than Mrs. Westcott. The first day of school I brought
my beloved Golden Book with me.
"This year we'll be learning how to read," I remember Mrs. Heavey saying. I
raised my hand.
"Yes. . .Catherine?" she said, reading my name tag.
"I can read this book," I announced.
"Can you?" Mrs. Heavey said in a voice that said she really didn't believe me.
"Yup," I replied. I opened it and began to read the first page.
"All right, that's enough, Catherine," Mrs. Heavey said in a warning tone.
But just before we left for recess, she asked if she could speak to me for
a minute.
Suspecting, probably, that I was merely reciting the book from memory,
Mrs. Heavey flipped a few pages and asked me to read. I did just that.
Frowning, she flipped a few more pages, pointed to a word, and asked me what
it was. I told her.
It wasn't long before it was established that I was the only kid in the class
who could read.
When I was seven, my mother gave birth to my sister, Annemarie. I don't
know who Annemarie's father was, either. But not knowing our fathers
gave my half-sister and me something in common. Even though she's seven
years younger than me, Annemarie was, and is to this day, my best friend.
My entire childhood, if you can call it that, was spent doing two things:
studying and taking care of Annemarie. I took much better care of her than
my mother did. Not that my mother didn't try- she really did. She did want to
quit doing drugs. But her drug-free periods were never long, and most of
her extra money was spent on drugs.
But all that studying paid off in the end, because I was awarded a full
scholarship to the University of Nevada.
The summer before I started college I took a job baby-sitting for the Martin
family. Mr. and Mrs. Martin were taking a ballroom dancing class together,
so they needed a sitter every Friday night. One of my high school friends
told me about them. I already had a job but I thought that it might be a good
way to make some extra money.
The Martins lived in this pretty little house in the suburbs with a white
picket fence- seriously. They had twin five-year-olds, Greg and Calli, who
were so cute and so sweet that they looked like they should have halos over
their little heads. Greg was a chubby little thing, blond, blue-eyed,
and always smiling. Calli had red hair and freckles and a constant smile,
just like her brother. Calli took ballet and Greg played T-ball. The whole
family was very involved in their church. Calli and Greg got along great,
and they loved their parents. And their parents loved each other. They
always came home from ballroom dancing smiling and looking into each
other's eyes like they wanted to kiss but not in front of the baby-sitter.
I started to become suspicious. I mean, no family is that pefect. But I did a
little snooping and I never found any evidence to the contrary. In the drawer
I found coupons that Mr. and Mrs. Martin had given each other for Valentine's
Day, coupons for things like a moonlit walk, a romantic dinner, some chocolate-covered strawberries, and sex- which made me quickly put them away
and try to forget about them. I looked at the photo album and found not only
happy pictures but also detailed descriptions of those pictures: "We had so
much fun on our trip to Disneyland. . ." "Calli lost her first tooth on January
10th and Greg lost his three days later. . ."
Something about that photo album hit me hard. I realized that I was jealous.
I wanted everything that the Martins had. And they weren't even rich- they
were just happy, loving, and financially secure. I made a vow then that I
would spend my life working for what they had, so that my children would
not have to go through what I went through.
I loved college. Absolutely loved it. For the first time, I had two things: fun
and friends. And I was studying science, which had always been my favorite
subject. I thought I was finally on the path to achieving that perfect life that
the Martins had.
Then, when I had just one semester of college left before I graduated, it
happened.
My mother died of a drug overdose.
I was twenty-two. Annemarie was fifteen.
I dropped out of college so that I could take care of her. But it soon became
clear that I didn't have enough money to do so. I was feeling desperate. . . and
then I learned that a nearby strip club was hiring. I also remembered hearing
somewhere that strippers make more money than teachers.
So I auditioned. And somehow, I got the job. All my money problems
instantly disappeared.
But I hated working there. I hated how cheap it made me feel, like there was
nothing beneath my skin. I hated all the horny guys who would take me out
for dinner in hopes of screwing me before they ran back to their wives or girlfriends.
But I only hated it until I got my paycheck. That was what got me to work
every day and what made me stay there even after Annemarie graduated
from high school, went to college on a scholarship, and moved out of our
apartment.
Gradually, though, I began to adjust to working there. I met another
stripper named Stephanie Watson, and she became my best friend. Life became
a little more bearable, and I even opened myself up to the possibility of meeting
guys at the strip club.
So I met Eddie Willows, a guy who put together bands for a living. Stupidly, I
thought he was different from the other guys because he actually asked me
on a few dates before he wanted sex. And, stupidly, I gave him what he wanted.
"Strip for me, gorgeous," he said to me back at his apartment after our third
date. I did, just the way I did at work. Eddie grinned like it was Christmas. "Oh,
yes. . ." he said under his breath.
He threw me down onto his bed and pinned me down by the collarbone. Later
when I checked I found bruises there. At the time I was a little stunned. It was
sex like I had never expereienced it before. It was violent, it was scary- but I
loved it. If I'd only known what it foreshadowed.
Eddie and I continued dating for a long time. Then one day my period was late.
I panicked. In my mind I had visions of the past repeating itself. My child would
grow up with a stripper mother, never knowing its father. *No,* I thought to
myself. *No, it can't be. . .*
But it wasn't, although it took six home pregnancy tests to convince me of
that. Even so, that experience was a reality check for me. I knew that someday
I might get pregnant for real- and I wasn't about to let my child go through
what I went through as a child.
"Eddie," I said to him the next time I saw him, "look, I've been thinking about
this. . .and I don't think this is going to work. I think I'm too old now for just. . .
you know, a good time every night. I need to be in a serious. . .*committed*
relationship. I think I owe that to my future children."
Eddie stood there for a minute with this blank look on his face.
"Ed," I said, starting to feel bad, "I'm sorry, but I-"
"Okay, then," said Eddie finally. "Let's get married."
I looked at him, unable to believe my ears. "What?"
"You heard me," he said, his mouth stretching into a grin. "You want a
committed relationship. . .let's get married."
I just sat there gaping at him for the longest time. And I loved him then- or at
least I thought I did. So I went up to him and kissed him hard on the lips. "Okay,
then," I said.
So we got married in one of those Las Vegas wedding chapels that all of the
tourists go to.
The next day I called Annemarie. "So what's up?" I asked her. I expected her
to say, "Ah, not much," like she usually did, but instead she actually
answered.
"Ohh, Cath, I just had the most boring date in history!" she groaned.
"Last night I went out with this guy who Joanne told me about, and she failed
to tell me he was a recovering alcoholic! But I found that out soon enough.
He introduced himself to me the way he did at his first AA meeting. He goes,
'My name is Jeff Smith, and I am an alcoholic.'"
I laughed sympathetically, even though I was dying for the story to be over
so that I could tell her my news.
"And that was the high point of the date. My God." Annemarie sighed. "So,
what have you been up to? Hope your love life's better than mine."
"Well, I got married last night," I told her casually.
I let her shriek and exclaim and congratulate for awhile. Something was
bothering me, though. When I got off the phone I figured out what.
*My name is Jeff Smith, and I am an alcoholic.*
I was glad I wasn't an alcoholic. I would have hated that- having to summarize
myself to strangers in terms of one thing. Jeff Smith could have been so many
things- maybe he played tennis, maybe he sold insurance, maybe he went to a
good college, maybe he liked to read mysteries- but all the people at his AA
meetings would know was that he was an alcoholic, at least at first. Because
that was how he had summarized himself- "My name is Jeff Smith, and I am
an alcoholic."
I knew that they had alcoholics say that because the first step to an
alcoholic's recovery is admitting that he has a problem. But I thought, maybe,
that it might also be because it sounded so harsh to sum up your whole life,
your whole self, by saying "I am an alcoholic." I thought that just saying
that sentence would make me want to change myself, so that I could
summarize myself some different way.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I had a new name now. "My name is
Catherine Willows," I said to myself, and I liked the sound of it. Catherine
Willows. Catherine Willows. "My name is Catherine Willows," I said in my mind,
"and I am married."
After that, it became a sort of game with me. I used my name to sum up
whatever I was feeling at the moment. When I got a large paycheck, I said to
myself, "My name is Catherine Willows, and I am rich." When Eddie and I moved
out of the apartment into our first home, I said to myself, "My name is
Catherine Willows, and I am a homeowner." When Eddie kissed me, I said to
myself, "My name is Catherine Willows, and I am loved."
Meanwhile, the strip club had gotten more interesting than ever. A man named
Jimmy Tadero began frequenting the club, and he started telling me about
cases he worked on. Something about those cases piqued my interest. I'd always
liked science, but I'd never really thought about it being used to solve crimes. He
told me about all the different ways that crimes could be solved- fingerprints,
hair samples, all that stuff. I'd always listen intently when he described a case
to me.
"There's this victim," I remember him saying. "Female, twenty-two. Shot in the
temple while she slept in her apartment. Looks like it was an intruder- we got
a print off the windowsill."
"Any suspects?" I asked.
"Well, we talked to her parents," he said. "They're devastated. Only child,
you know?" He shook his head sadly. "But we got from them that she was seeing
some guy. Got the guy's name from one of her friends. He's fifty-four years
old. Married, too."
"You check this guy out?" I asked.
"Of course," he replied. "He's got a rock-solid alibi. Out for a beer with his
tennis buddies. Their stories all match up."
"What about the wife? Did she know about the girl?"
"Sure did. None too happy, either. But we checked her, and her prints don't
match up." He sighed. "We're thinking maybe she hired someone to kill her."
"Unless. . ." I thought aloud, "she didn't do it at all."
Jimmy looked at me like I was crazy. "Well, if she didn't do it, who did?"
"Does the guy have any kids?" I asked him.
He looked surprised. "Why, yes, he does. Two girls, twenty-five and nineteen.
Older girl lives in New York, younger girl in Reno."
"We-ell. . ." I said, "if I were one of them, I wouldn't be too happy about my fifty-four-year-old father cheating on my mother with a girl young enough to
be my sister."
The next time I saw Jimmy he walked right up to me and gave me a hug.
"Catherine Willows," he said, "you are amazing."
"What?" I asked, flattered but confused. "What did I do?"
"We ran prints on the daughter," he said excitedly, "the one in Reno."
"And you got a match?!" I cried.
"We got a *confession,*" he said happily. "We caught a killer, Cath. And we
never would have caught her without you." He shook his head in amazement. "I
tell you, you are one smart cookie, Catherine."
I didn't stop smiling for the rest of the night. *One smart cookie.* It had been
so long since someone had called me that. Somewhere along the line, I had
forgotten that I had taught myself to read. That I graduated high school at
the top of my class. That I was awarded a full scholarship to college.
"My name is Catherine Willows," I said to myself, "and I am smart."
I kept right on helping Jimmy with his cases and giving him ideas. But it was
one thing to hear about crime, and a totally different thing when it
was right in front of me.
Stephanie Watson was murdered one dark night as she left the strip club.
I don't remember crying. I just remember going numb, shutting myself into
my bedroom, and not returning to work. I couldn't imagine ever going back
to work. Stephanie, my best friend, wouldn't be there anymore.
They thought she was killed by a man named Kelso, who was convicted of
her murder. We didn't find out until recently that it wasn't him. Kelso had
been threatening her inside the strip club. I thought to myself that if
Stephanie hadn't been a stripper, she'd still be alive.
I looked at myself in the mirror. "My name is Catherine Willows, and I am a
stripper," I said.
I winced. I hated the way those words sounded. So I made up my mind to
change myself. I told myself that if it didn't work out, I could always go
back and dance. But deep down, I knew I never would.
I went back to school and got my diploma. Then, with Jimmy's help, I went to
school to become a CSI. After I graduated, I found a job with the LVPD, and
there I met Gil Grissom.
Since then, I have become a CSI 3. I have solved countless crimes, some of
which have made me sick, or angry, or deeply sad. But the feeling I get when
a criminal is put away is the same every time: the deep satisfaction that
justice is being served. That's what keeps me coming back every day.
I loved my new job, and every day I came home happy. But as my professional
life got better, my personal life got worse- much worse.
It had never bothered Eddie that I made more money than him as a stripper. But
now that I had a job that was respectable *and* paid a lot of money, he
was threatened. And that made him hostile. He started getting angry at me
for no reason. When I asked him a question, he snapped at me, "You're the
brilliant scientist, you tell me!" And he kept accusing me of having an affair
with Grissom. I got new, fancy underwear once and he said sarcastically, "Is
that for your boss?"
I got sick of it. So sick that I made up my mind to divorce him. *I could do better,*
I thought. And then my home pregnancy test was positive. So were five more.
And I knew then that I was staying. I wanted my future children to have
everything I didn't have as a child: two married parents, a nice house,
financial security- the life of the Martins. Getting divorced would screw up
all that.
But Eddie surprised me: he was thrilled that I was pregnant. He stopped
yelling at me and accusing me and started being in love with me again. He
spent hours with me on the couch with a baby book, picking out names. He
started bringing me presents for no apparent reason. If I got morning
sickness, he was there holding my hair as I leaned over the toilet. If I had
food cravings- usually for chips and chocolate, not for pickles and ice
cream- he was more than willing to run to the store to get them for me.
Eddie cried like a baby when Lindsey was born. I remember looking at him in
shock in the delivery room. It was the most endearing thing in the world to
see him sobbing with joy over the birth of his daughter. I looked down at the
tiny miracle in my arms and felt joy and love of my own that transcended
words. *My name is Catherine Willows,* I thought, *and I am the mother of a
beautiful baby girl.*
For the next few years, our marriage was wonderful. Our love for Lindsey
brought us closer together. Together we shared the joy of her first smile,
her first words, her first steps. She was- is- such a beautiful, loveable little
girl. When she ran to us and threw her arms around us both and said, "I love
you, Mommy. I love you, Daddy," I looked at Eddie and wondered how I could
ever have thought about divorcing him.
But then it all started again. The nastiness, the "you're-the-brilliant-
scientist" garbage, the accusations. Especially the accusations. Some days
it seemed like every other word out of his mouth was "Grissom." It became
clear that our mutual love for Lindsey didn't mean that we loved each other.
Soon I felt exactly the way that I did before I got pregnant.
Then the hostility began to escalate into full-blown fights. More often than
not we spent our nights screaming at each other at the tops of our lungs. He
won most fights because I let him. I would be in the middle of a fight when it
would occur to me: *Lindsey's upstairs. Lindsey's listening to this. Lindsey's
probably really scared.* And then I knew that I could not continue the fight.
But the fights continued- night after night after night.
He did hit me- just once.
Even with my good memory, I can't remember how the fight started. That's
how trivial it was. It just escalated, and the next thing I knew we were
screaming at each other. Finally, I picked my keys from the kitchen counter,
not thinking clearly. "That's IT! I am LEAVING!" I screamed.
Eddie's face hardened. I had never seen him so angry, and it frightened me.
That's why I didn't react when he took the keys from me and threw them in the
trash. "No, you are not," he said in a low, menacing voice, and then his hand
smashed across my cheek.
I stumbled backward, shocked. No one had ever hit me before. I studied his
face and thought that I could see a hint of remorse there, but I could also
see that his mule-headedness wasn't going to let him apologize. He got out
his own keys and went out the front door. As the situation finally began to
sink in, I heard his car pulling out of the driveway.
I took a deep, shaky breath. *Oh, God, please don't let Lindsey have heard
that,* I thought, and to this day I'm not sure whether or not she did.
I really couldn't leave then- if I did, Lindsey would be alone. But there was the
matter of getting back my keys.
I got down on my knees and opened the bottom part of the trash compactor.
I couldn't see the keys. So I dug around and felt for them. Still no luck. I kept
digging for them until my hands finally closed around them. Then suddenly I
stopped and realized something.
*My name is Catherine Willows, and I am up to my elbows in garbage.*
The next day I went to visit Annemarie, and I told her everything. She was, to
say the least, outraged. I'll leave out all the names she called him.
"Catherine, you can't stay with him now," she said. I said nothing.
"Catherine! Don't tell me you were actually considering *staying* with
that. . ."
"You want Lindsey to grow up like we did?"
"You think it's any better for her to grow up in a house where her dad hits
her mom?" Annemarie retorted.
"But. . ." I paused. "But what if I stay with him and he never hits me again?"
"But what if he does?" she countered.
I was silent for a second. "But maybe. . ."
Annemarie placed her hand firmly on top of mine and looked squarely into
my eyes. Slowly and deliberately, she repeated her words. "*What if he
does*?"
I got the message.
And I wish I could stay that when I got home I told him that we were finished.
But I didn't. And for three weeks, things were civil between us.
Then one Friday night, I had to work late. So I called Eddie and told him what
time I'd be home and to pick up Lindsey at Annemarie's house. But I ended up
finishing earlier than I'd expected. When I got home, there were two cars in
the driveway. One was Eddie's. The other was unfamiliar.
When I opened the door, I heard very loud music that I recognized as an old
Boyz II Men CD we had lying around. Eddie probably didn't hear me come in as
the music played. I went upstairs into our bedroom. The first thing I saw was
Eddie's bare back facing me amid the rumpled sheets of our bed. The second
thing I saw was a woman. Beneath him.
I picked the remote control off the night table and turned off the music.
Their movements stopped. Eddie turned around.
"Who's your friend, Eddie?" I asked evenly.
He looked sheepish- really sheepish. "This is, uh, Melanie," he replied,
sitting up a little straighter in bed. "I, uh. . .I met her at work."
"Melanie," I repeated cooly. Even in my fury I thought that she was beautiful-
creamy skin, silky brown hair, waif-thin. "Nice to meet you. Where's Lindsey?"
"She's, uh. . .she's sleeping over at Elizabeth's house," he said.
That was all I needed. I turned and walked out the door.
And I left- finally.
I stopped at the first hotel I saw and checked myself in. I almost wrote a
fake name, just for the heck of it, but at the last minute I wrote my real
name: Catherine Willows.
I don't cry.
I never have. Not even when people die- people like my mother, or Stephanie,
or my colleague Holly Gribbs. I don't remember crying a lot as a child- and I
have a good memory.
I cried in the hotel room. Just lay down on the bed and cried my eyes out.
When I finished crying I got up and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror.
"My name is Catherine Willows," I said out loud, "and I am married to a man who
treats me like crap."
The next time I saw Eddie I presented him with divorce papers.
And although I had moments where I doubted it, it was definitely the best
decision I ever made. Since that day, he's been more and more of a jerk. He
tried to cheat me out of my money by taking a second mortgage on the house.
He almost hit me again, this time right in front of Grissom. And when I forgot
to pick up Lindsey once he called Child Services on me- as if I were the criminal.
He does love Lindsey, I'll give him that. But that is his only redeeming quality.
I worry about Lindsey. I mean, every mother worries about her child, but I
*really* worry about Lindsey. She's had to go through so much at such a
young age, and I worry about how she'll deal with it, about how it's going to
affect her later in life.
I talked to Annemarie about it once. "Oh, Catherine, you have nothing to
worry about," she told me. "Look at everything you went through as a kid. You
had no father and a drug-addict mother who was never there for you. Now,
Lindsey," she continued, "has a mother who loves her and is *always* there
for her." She smiled. "Just like you were always there for me. You're only
seven years older than me and you've taken care of me my whole life, for God's
sake! And I turned out okay."
I had to agree with that. Annemarie was happily married and had a beautiful
little boy named Jeremy. She was more than okay. She was very happy.
"And you're okay, too, Cath," she continued. "So I'm sure Lindsey will be."
*Okay.*
That night, I slept well. When I woke up in the morning, I went to the mirror.
I looked at the woman inside of it. She was forty-ish, strawberry blonde- at
least with the new dye job- and pretty. She was a mother and she was an ex-wife.
She was smart, she was strong, and she was capable. She was resilient. She
was a crime scene investigator- and a good one. She was honest with herself.
And she had a heart full of love- love for life, love for her family, love for
her friends, and love for herself.
"My name is Catherine Willows," I said to myself, "and I am okay."
The End
Thanks for reading my first CSI fic! Please review. My e-mail address is EKHashet@hotmail.com
Author: Erin Kaye Hashet
Rating: PG
Feedback: EKHashet@hotmail.com
Spoilers: References to all the episodes that mention Eddie, and Felonious Monk.
Summary: Catherine reflects on all that has made her who she is today.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters; no infringement intended. I'm not
making any money off this, so you can't sue me.
Author's Note: I've never written CSI fanfic before, but after I saw "The Finger"
I just admired Catherine so much that I kind of rediscovered why she's my favorite character. She's just so complex, and her life has so many contradictions- like
why was a strong, smart woman like her a stripper? This story is my attempt to answer some of those questions.
My Name Is Catherine Willows
by Erin Kaye Hashet
My name is Catherine Willows.
Every morning I repeat that to myself. It helps me to remember who I am-- as
oppposed to who I was, and who I will be. Who I am today may be a completely
different person than who I am tomorrow.
But every day, one thing remains the same: my name is Catherine Willows.
I never knew my father.
Literally. I don't know his name, or how old he is, or if he's even alive. I
wonder, sometimes, if I look like him. I look nothing like my mother, but for all I
know she' s not even my mother.
Sometimes I feel like I never knew her, either. She was a drug addict who, half
the time, forgot about me. She forgot a lot of things, actually. Like who my
father was. Honestly, that's what she said when I asked her who my father was:
"I don't remember." She probably wasn't lying. My father could have been any
one of the guys she slept with while she was high.
My memory is a little better than my mother's. A lot better, in fact. I still
remember kindergarten. I remember my teacher, Mrs. Westcott. She was a
pretty woman, young, with shoulder-length honey-blond hair and piercing
blue eyes. She always wore cherry-red lipstick, but it didn't look gaudy, at
least not to a five-year-old. To this day, when I hear the word "red," that's
what I think of: Mrs. Westcott's cherry-red lipstick.
I remember the flash cards she'd hold up to the class, with the letters of
the alphabet on them. We'd have to say the letter and the sound it made.
"This is A and the sounds are ay and ah. This is B and the sound is buh," we'd
all chorus. I memorized those flash cards without even realizing it.
On the last day of kindergarten, we were each given a book, one of those
Little Golden Books. At home, I sat down with mine and sounded out every
word. It took awhile. By the end of the first page, I was exhausted. But I was
also jubilant: I'd done it. I was reading.
The next fall I started first grade. My teacher's name was Mrs. Heavey, and
she was much older than Mrs. Westcott. The first day of school I brought
my beloved Golden Book with me.
"This year we'll be learning how to read," I remember Mrs. Heavey saying. I
raised my hand.
"Yes. . .Catherine?" she said, reading my name tag.
"I can read this book," I announced.
"Can you?" Mrs. Heavey said in a voice that said she really didn't believe me.
"Yup," I replied. I opened it and began to read the first page.
"All right, that's enough, Catherine," Mrs. Heavey said in a warning tone.
But just before we left for recess, she asked if she could speak to me for
a minute.
Suspecting, probably, that I was merely reciting the book from memory,
Mrs. Heavey flipped a few pages and asked me to read. I did just that.
Frowning, she flipped a few more pages, pointed to a word, and asked me what
it was. I told her.
It wasn't long before it was established that I was the only kid in the class
who could read.
When I was seven, my mother gave birth to my sister, Annemarie. I don't
know who Annemarie's father was, either. But not knowing our fathers
gave my half-sister and me something in common. Even though she's seven
years younger than me, Annemarie was, and is to this day, my best friend.
My entire childhood, if you can call it that, was spent doing two things:
studying and taking care of Annemarie. I took much better care of her than
my mother did. Not that my mother didn't try- she really did. She did want to
quit doing drugs. But her drug-free periods were never long, and most of
her extra money was spent on drugs.
But all that studying paid off in the end, because I was awarded a full
scholarship to the University of Nevada.
The summer before I started college I took a job baby-sitting for the Martin
family. Mr. and Mrs. Martin were taking a ballroom dancing class together,
so they needed a sitter every Friday night. One of my high school friends
told me about them. I already had a job but I thought that it might be a good
way to make some extra money.
The Martins lived in this pretty little house in the suburbs with a white
picket fence- seriously. They had twin five-year-olds, Greg and Calli, who
were so cute and so sweet that they looked like they should have halos over
their little heads. Greg was a chubby little thing, blond, blue-eyed,
and always smiling. Calli had red hair and freckles and a constant smile,
just like her brother. Calli took ballet and Greg played T-ball. The whole
family was very involved in their church. Calli and Greg got along great,
and they loved their parents. And their parents loved each other. They
always came home from ballroom dancing smiling and looking into each
other's eyes like they wanted to kiss but not in front of the baby-sitter.
I started to become suspicious. I mean, no family is that pefect. But I did a
little snooping and I never found any evidence to the contrary. In the drawer
I found coupons that Mr. and Mrs. Martin had given each other for Valentine's
Day, coupons for things like a moonlit walk, a romantic dinner, some chocolate-covered strawberries, and sex- which made me quickly put them away
and try to forget about them. I looked at the photo album and found not only
happy pictures but also detailed descriptions of those pictures: "We had so
much fun on our trip to Disneyland. . ." "Calli lost her first tooth on January
10th and Greg lost his three days later. . ."
Something about that photo album hit me hard. I realized that I was jealous.
I wanted everything that the Martins had. And they weren't even rich- they
were just happy, loving, and financially secure. I made a vow then that I
would spend my life working for what they had, so that my children would
not have to go through what I went through.
I loved college. Absolutely loved it. For the first time, I had two things: fun
and friends. And I was studying science, which had always been my favorite
subject. I thought I was finally on the path to achieving that perfect life that
the Martins had.
Then, when I had just one semester of college left before I graduated, it
happened.
My mother died of a drug overdose.
I was twenty-two. Annemarie was fifteen.
I dropped out of college so that I could take care of her. But it soon became
clear that I didn't have enough money to do so. I was feeling desperate. . . and
then I learned that a nearby strip club was hiring. I also remembered hearing
somewhere that strippers make more money than teachers.
So I auditioned. And somehow, I got the job. All my money problems
instantly disappeared.
But I hated working there. I hated how cheap it made me feel, like there was
nothing beneath my skin. I hated all the horny guys who would take me out
for dinner in hopes of screwing me before they ran back to their wives or girlfriends.
But I only hated it until I got my paycheck. That was what got me to work
every day and what made me stay there even after Annemarie graduated
from high school, went to college on a scholarship, and moved out of our
apartment.
Gradually, though, I began to adjust to working there. I met another
stripper named Stephanie Watson, and she became my best friend. Life became
a little more bearable, and I even opened myself up to the possibility of meeting
guys at the strip club.
So I met Eddie Willows, a guy who put together bands for a living. Stupidly, I
thought he was different from the other guys because he actually asked me
on a few dates before he wanted sex. And, stupidly, I gave him what he wanted.
"Strip for me, gorgeous," he said to me back at his apartment after our third
date. I did, just the way I did at work. Eddie grinned like it was Christmas. "Oh,
yes. . ." he said under his breath.
He threw me down onto his bed and pinned me down by the collarbone. Later
when I checked I found bruises there. At the time I was a little stunned. It was
sex like I had never expereienced it before. It was violent, it was scary- but I
loved it. If I'd only known what it foreshadowed.
Eddie and I continued dating for a long time. Then one day my period was late.
I panicked. In my mind I had visions of the past repeating itself. My child would
grow up with a stripper mother, never knowing its father. *No,* I thought to
myself. *No, it can't be. . .*
But it wasn't, although it took six home pregnancy tests to convince me of
that. Even so, that experience was a reality check for me. I knew that someday
I might get pregnant for real- and I wasn't about to let my child go through
what I went through as a child.
"Eddie," I said to him the next time I saw him, "look, I've been thinking about
this. . .and I don't think this is going to work. I think I'm too old now for just. . .
you know, a good time every night. I need to be in a serious. . .*committed*
relationship. I think I owe that to my future children."
Eddie stood there for a minute with this blank look on his face.
"Ed," I said, starting to feel bad, "I'm sorry, but I-"
"Okay, then," said Eddie finally. "Let's get married."
I looked at him, unable to believe my ears. "What?"
"You heard me," he said, his mouth stretching into a grin. "You want a
committed relationship. . .let's get married."
I just sat there gaping at him for the longest time. And I loved him then- or at
least I thought I did. So I went up to him and kissed him hard on the lips. "Okay,
then," I said.
So we got married in one of those Las Vegas wedding chapels that all of the
tourists go to.
The next day I called Annemarie. "So what's up?" I asked her. I expected her
to say, "Ah, not much," like she usually did, but instead she actually
answered.
"Ohh, Cath, I just had the most boring date in history!" she groaned.
"Last night I went out with this guy who Joanne told me about, and she failed
to tell me he was a recovering alcoholic! But I found that out soon enough.
He introduced himself to me the way he did at his first AA meeting. He goes,
'My name is Jeff Smith, and I am an alcoholic.'"
I laughed sympathetically, even though I was dying for the story to be over
so that I could tell her my news.
"And that was the high point of the date. My God." Annemarie sighed. "So,
what have you been up to? Hope your love life's better than mine."
"Well, I got married last night," I told her casually.
I let her shriek and exclaim and congratulate for awhile. Something was
bothering me, though. When I got off the phone I figured out what.
*My name is Jeff Smith, and I am an alcoholic.*
I was glad I wasn't an alcoholic. I would have hated that- having to summarize
myself to strangers in terms of one thing. Jeff Smith could have been so many
things- maybe he played tennis, maybe he sold insurance, maybe he went to a
good college, maybe he liked to read mysteries- but all the people at his AA
meetings would know was that he was an alcoholic, at least at first. Because
that was how he had summarized himself- "My name is Jeff Smith, and I am
an alcoholic."
I knew that they had alcoholics say that because the first step to an
alcoholic's recovery is admitting that he has a problem. But I thought, maybe,
that it might also be because it sounded so harsh to sum up your whole life,
your whole self, by saying "I am an alcoholic." I thought that just saying
that sentence would make me want to change myself, so that I could
summarize myself some different way.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I had a new name now. "My name is
Catherine Willows," I said to myself, and I liked the sound of it. Catherine
Willows. Catherine Willows. "My name is Catherine Willows," I said in my mind,
"and I am married."
After that, it became a sort of game with me. I used my name to sum up
whatever I was feeling at the moment. When I got a large paycheck, I said to
myself, "My name is Catherine Willows, and I am rich." When Eddie and I moved
out of the apartment into our first home, I said to myself, "My name is
Catherine Willows, and I am a homeowner." When Eddie kissed me, I said to
myself, "My name is Catherine Willows, and I am loved."
Meanwhile, the strip club had gotten more interesting than ever. A man named
Jimmy Tadero began frequenting the club, and he started telling me about
cases he worked on. Something about those cases piqued my interest. I'd always
liked science, but I'd never really thought about it being used to solve crimes. He
told me about all the different ways that crimes could be solved- fingerprints,
hair samples, all that stuff. I'd always listen intently when he described a case
to me.
"There's this victim," I remember him saying. "Female, twenty-two. Shot in the
temple while she slept in her apartment. Looks like it was an intruder- we got
a print off the windowsill."
"Any suspects?" I asked.
"Well, we talked to her parents," he said. "They're devastated. Only child,
you know?" He shook his head sadly. "But we got from them that she was seeing
some guy. Got the guy's name from one of her friends. He's fifty-four years
old. Married, too."
"You check this guy out?" I asked.
"Of course," he replied. "He's got a rock-solid alibi. Out for a beer with his
tennis buddies. Their stories all match up."
"What about the wife? Did she know about the girl?"
"Sure did. None too happy, either. But we checked her, and her prints don't
match up." He sighed. "We're thinking maybe she hired someone to kill her."
"Unless. . ." I thought aloud, "she didn't do it at all."
Jimmy looked at me like I was crazy. "Well, if she didn't do it, who did?"
"Does the guy have any kids?" I asked him.
He looked surprised. "Why, yes, he does. Two girls, twenty-five and nineteen.
Older girl lives in New York, younger girl in Reno."
"We-ell. . ." I said, "if I were one of them, I wouldn't be too happy about my fifty-four-year-old father cheating on my mother with a girl young enough to
be my sister."
The next time I saw Jimmy he walked right up to me and gave me a hug.
"Catherine Willows," he said, "you are amazing."
"What?" I asked, flattered but confused. "What did I do?"
"We ran prints on the daughter," he said excitedly, "the one in Reno."
"And you got a match?!" I cried.
"We got a *confession,*" he said happily. "We caught a killer, Cath. And we
never would have caught her without you." He shook his head in amazement. "I
tell you, you are one smart cookie, Catherine."
I didn't stop smiling for the rest of the night. *One smart cookie.* It had been
so long since someone had called me that. Somewhere along the line, I had
forgotten that I had taught myself to read. That I graduated high school at
the top of my class. That I was awarded a full scholarship to college.
"My name is Catherine Willows," I said to myself, "and I am smart."
I kept right on helping Jimmy with his cases and giving him ideas. But it was
one thing to hear about crime, and a totally different thing when it
was right in front of me.
Stephanie Watson was murdered one dark night as she left the strip club.
I don't remember crying. I just remember going numb, shutting myself into
my bedroom, and not returning to work. I couldn't imagine ever going back
to work. Stephanie, my best friend, wouldn't be there anymore.
They thought she was killed by a man named Kelso, who was convicted of
her murder. We didn't find out until recently that it wasn't him. Kelso had
been threatening her inside the strip club. I thought to myself that if
Stephanie hadn't been a stripper, she'd still be alive.
I looked at myself in the mirror. "My name is Catherine Willows, and I am a
stripper," I said.
I winced. I hated the way those words sounded. So I made up my mind to
change myself. I told myself that if it didn't work out, I could always go
back and dance. But deep down, I knew I never would.
I went back to school and got my diploma. Then, with Jimmy's help, I went to
school to become a CSI. After I graduated, I found a job with the LVPD, and
there I met Gil Grissom.
Since then, I have become a CSI 3. I have solved countless crimes, some of
which have made me sick, or angry, or deeply sad. But the feeling I get when
a criminal is put away is the same every time: the deep satisfaction that
justice is being served. That's what keeps me coming back every day.
I loved my new job, and every day I came home happy. But as my professional
life got better, my personal life got worse- much worse.
It had never bothered Eddie that I made more money than him as a stripper. But
now that I had a job that was respectable *and* paid a lot of money, he
was threatened. And that made him hostile. He started getting angry at me
for no reason. When I asked him a question, he snapped at me, "You're the
brilliant scientist, you tell me!" And he kept accusing me of having an affair
with Grissom. I got new, fancy underwear once and he said sarcastically, "Is
that for your boss?"
I got sick of it. So sick that I made up my mind to divorce him. *I could do better,*
I thought. And then my home pregnancy test was positive. So were five more.
And I knew then that I was staying. I wanted my future children to have
everything I didn't have as a child: two married parents, a nice house,
financial security- the life of the Martins. Getting divorced would screw up
all that.
But Eddie surprised me: he was thrilled that I was pregnant. He stopped
yelling at me and accusing me and started being in love with me again. He
spent hours with me on the couch with a baby book, picking out names. He
started bringing me presents for no apparent reason. If I got morning
sickness, he was there holding my hair as I leaned over the toilet. If I had
food cravings- usually for chips and chocolate, not for pickles and ice
cream- he was more than willing to run to the store to get them for me.
Eddie cried like a baby when Lindsey was born. I remember looking at him in
shock in the delivery room. It was the most endearing thing in the world to
see him sobbing with joy over the birth of his daughter. I looked down at the
tiny miracle in my arms and felt joy and love of my own that transcended
words. *My name is Catherine Willows,* I thought, *and I am the mother of a
beautiful baby girl.*
For the next few years, our marriage was wonderful. Our love for Lindsey
brought us closer together. Together we shared the joy of her first smile,
her first words, her first steps. She was- is- such a beautiful, loveable little
girl. When she ran to us and threw her arms around us both and said, "I love
you, Mommy. I love you, Daddy," I looked at Eddie and wondered how I could
ever have thought about divorcing him.
But then it all started again. The nastiness, the "you're-the-brilliant-
scientist" garbage, the accusations. Especially the accusations. Some days
it seemed like every other word out of his mouth was "Grissom." It became
clear that our mutual love for Lindsey didn't mean that we loved each other.
Soon I felt exactly the way that I did before I got pregnant.
Then the hostility began to escalate into full-blown fights. More often than
not we spent our nights screaming at each other at the tops of our lungs. He
won most fights because I let him. I would be in the middle of a fight when it
would occur to me: *Lindsey's upstairs. Lindsey's listening to this. Lindsey's
probably really scared.* And then I knew that I could not continue the fight.
But the fights continued- night after night after night.
He did hit me- just once.
Even with my good memory, I can't remember how the fight started. That's
how trivial it was. It just escalated, and the next thing I knew we were
screaming at each other. Finally, I picked my keys from the kitchen counter,
not thinking clearly. "That's IT! I am LEAVING!" I screamed.
Eddie's face hardened. I had never seen him so angry, and it frightened me.
That's why I didn't react when he took the keys from me and threw them in the
trash. "No, you are not," he said in a low, menacing voice, and then his hand
smashed across my cheek.
I stumbled backward, shocked. No one had ever hit me before. I studied his
face and thought that I could see a hint of remorse there, but I could also
see that his mule-headedness wasn't going to let him apologize. He got out
his own keys and went out the front door. As the situation finally began to
sink in, I heard his car pulling out of the driveway.
I took a deep, shaky breath. *Oh, God, please don't let Lindsey have heard
that,* I thought, and to this day I'm not sure whether or not she did.
I really couldn't leave then- if I did, Lindsey would be alone. But there was the
matter of getting back my keys.
I got down on my knees and opened the bottom part of the trash compactor.
I couldn't see the keys. So I dug around and felt for them. Still no luck. I kept
digging for them until my hands finally closed around them. Then suddenly I
stopped and realized something.
*My name is Catherine Willows, and I am up to my elbows in garbage.*
The next day I went to visit Annemarie, and I told her everything. She was, to
say the least, outraged. I'll leave out all the names she called him.
"Catherine, you can't stay with him now," she said. I said nothing.
"Catherine! Don't tell me you were actually considering *staying* with
that. . ."
"You want Lindsey to grow up like we did?"
"You think it's any better for her to grow up in a house where her dad hits
her mom?" Annemarie retorted.
"But. . ." I paused. "But what if I stay with him and he never hits me again?"
"But what if he does?" she countered.
I was silent for a second. "But maybe. . ."
Annemarie placed her hand firmly on top of mine and looked squarely into
my eyes. Slowly and deliberately, she repeated her words. "*What if he
does*?"
I got the message.
And I wish I could stay that when I got home I told him that we were finished.
But I didn't. And for three weeks, things were civil between us.
Then one Friday night, I had to work late. So I called Eddie and told him what
time I'd be home and to pick up Lindsey at Annemarie's house. But I ended up
finishing earlier than I'd expected. When I got home, there were two cars in
the driveway. One was Eddie's. The other was unfamiliar.
When I opened the door, I heard very loud music that I recognized as an old
Boyz II Men CD we had lying around. Eddie probably didn't hear me come in as
the music played. I went upstairs into our bedroom. The first thing I saw was
Eddie's bare back facing me amid the rumpled sheets of our bed. The second
thing I saw was a woman. Beneath him.
I picked the remote control off the night table and turned off the music.
Their movements stopped. Eddie turned around.
"Who's your friend, Eddie?" I asked evenly.
He looked sheepish- really sheepish. "This is, uh, Melanie," he replied,
sitting up a little straighter in bed. "I, uh. . .I met her at work."
"Melanie," I repeated cooly. Even in my fury I thought that she was beautiful-
creamy skin, silky brown hair, waif-thin. "Nice to meet you. Where's Lindsey?"
"She's, uh. . .she's sleeping over at Elizabeth's house," he said.
That was all I needed. I turned and walked out the door.
And I left- finally.
I stopped at the first hotel I saw and checked myself in. I almost wrote a
fake name, just for the heck of it, but at the last minute I wrote my real
name: Catherine Willows.
I don't cry.
I never have. Not even when people die- people like my mother, or Stephanie,
or my colleague Holly Gribbs. I don't remember crying a lot as a child- and I
have a good memory.
I cried in the hotel room. Just lay down on the bed and cried my eyes out.
When I finished crying I got up and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror.
"My name is Catherine Willows," I said out loud, "and I am married to a man who
treats me like crap."
The next time I saw Eddie I presented him with divorce papers.
And although I had moments where I doubted it, it was definitely the best
decision I ever made. Since that day, he's been more and more of a jerk. He
tried to cheat me out of my money by taking a second mortgage on the house.
He almost hit me again, this time right in front of Grissom. And when I forgot
to pick up Lindsey once he called Child Services on me- as if I were the criminal.
He does love Lindsey, I'll give him that. But that is his only redeeming quality.
I worry about Lindsey. I mean, every mother worries about her child, but I
*really* worry about Lindsey. She's had to go through so much at such a
young age, and I worry about how she'll deal with it, about how it's going to
affect her later in life.
I talked to Annemarie about it once. "Oh, Catherine, you have nothing to
worry about," she told me. "Look at everything you went through as a kid. You
had no father and a drug-addict mother who was never there for you. Now,
Lindsey," she continued, "has a mother who loves her and is *always* there
for her." She smiled. "Just like you were always there for me. You're only
seven years older than me and you've taken care of me my whole life, for God's
sake! And I turned out okay."
I had to agree with that. Annemarie was happily married and had a beautiful
little boy named Jeremy. She was more than okay. She was very happy.
"And you're okay, too, Cath," she continued. "So I'm sure Lindsey will be."
*Okay.*
That night, I slept well. When I woke up in the morning, I went to the mirror.
I looked at the woman inside of it. She was forty-ish, strawberry blonde- at
least with the new dye job- and pretty. She was a mother and she was an ex-wife.
She was smart, she was strong, and she was capable. She was resilient. She
was a crime scene investigator- and a good one. She was honest with herself.
And she had a heart full of love- love for life, love for her family, love for
her friends, and love for herself.
"My name is Catherine Willows," I said to myself, "and I am okay."
The End
Thanks for reading my first CSI fic! Please review. My e-mail address is EKHashet@hotmail.com
